California Carnage by Jon Sharpe Page B

of her worthless life if that’s what I want to do!’’
    Fargo ignored the obvious challenge for the moment. He was busy looking down at the girl, whose head drooped to the side now so that her hair no longer covered all of her face. He saw the ugly puckered scar that covered her left cheek and understood why she kept her head down all the time. She didn’t want people staring at the damage that had been done to her sometime in the past, probably by a fire.
    Taking his time about it, Fargo lifted his gaze so that it met that of the proprietor. In a quiet voice, he asked, ‘‘What’s your name, mister?’’
    The man was taken aback by that unexpected question, but he answered, ‘‘Matthias Jarlberg, if it’s any o’ your business.’’
    ‘‘Oh, it’s my business,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I’d like to know who it is I’m about to beat the hell out of.’’

8
    The few farmers who remained in the tavern began sidling toward the door, not wasting any time about it as they did so. A couple of them cast nervous glances back over their shoulders, as if they knew a terrible storm was about to break.
    Fargo didn’t care. He was so mad that he would saddle that storm and ride it until it played out.
    Jarlberg stared at Fargo for a moment before he demanded, ‘‘What did you just say to me, mister?’’
    ‘‘You heard me,’’ Fargo snapped. ‘‘I’m going to beat the hell out of you and see how you like it for a change.’’
    ‘‘All because o’ the way I treat this ignorant little slut? What in blazes does she mean to you?’’ A canny look came into the man’s piggish little eyes. ‘‘If you’re sweet on her, you can have her for the night. Won’t cost you much, on account of she’s ugly—’’
    Jimmy stood up at the table and said, ‘‘Don’t you talk like that about her, mister! Don’t you say things like that!’’
    ‘‘Lord, now the damn half-wit’s startin’ in on me,’’ Jarlberg muttered.
    ‘‘You’re just digging yourself a deeper hole,’’ Fargo said.
    Jarlberg glanced down at the revolver on Fargo’s hip. He licked his lips. ‘‘I ain’t no gunfighter. I see you carry a big pigsticker, too, and I ain’t no good with one of them, neither.’’
    ‘‘Don’t worry,’’ Fargo told him. ‘‘Shooting you or carving you up wouldn’t be near as satisfying as pounding you with my fists.’’
    ‘‘All right, all right!’’ Jarlberg held up his hands in surrender. ‘‘What do you want me to do, apologize to her?’’
    ‘‘That’d be a start.’’
    ‘‘Fine.’’ Scowling and muttering, Jarlberg turned to Angie. She drew in a sharp, nervous breath and sidled backward as he took a step toward her. ‘‘Take it easy. I’m just sayin’ that I’m sorry for the way I treated you, gal. I won’t do it no more.’’ He glanced over his shoulder at Fargo. ‘‘Is that good enough?’’
    Fargo gave a curt nod. ‘‘I reckon.’’ He started to turn back toward the table where the others were.
    Even before Jimmy yelled ‘‘Mr. Fargo, look out!’’ he sensed the threatening movement behind him. A quick twist of his body showed Jarlberg lunging at him. The man had grabbed a tequila bottle from the bar. He swept it at Fargo’s head in a vicious blow.
    Fargo was expecting just such a treacherous move. He hadn’t believed Jarlberg’s insincere apology for a second. His own reaction was swift as lightning. He ducked so that the bottle passed over his head, although it came close enough to clip his hat and send it sailing. Fargo lowered his head even more and charged forward, slamming into Jarlberg.
    It was a little like tackling a mountain, but the man was off balance and Fargo put all his power into the pile-driving lunge. Jarlberg grunted as Fargo shoved him backward. The grunt turned into a yell of pain as his back crashed into the bar.
    The bar swayed under the impact but didn’t tip over. Jarlberg was bent over the hardwood. Grimacing in pain, he